


Degrees of Consanguinity

by the_wordbutler



Series: Motion Practice [27]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Family Drama, Legal Drama, M/M, Original Character(s), motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really kicks off when Bucky’s eleven, but that’s not the story.  The story is a brother who stops for a day and stays for a week, breaks fifteen years of silence, and drinks too much on a Thursday night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Degrees of Consanguinity

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the companion to ["Water of the Womb"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1815214) and takes place partially during the one-month time gap at the end of ["Diversions"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1036030) and partially during an upcoming story called "Harmless Error." However, neither story is spoiled by reading this one.
> 
> Any date discrepancy between this and "A Long Time Coming" is due to bad math and incomplete timelines. A lot of dates shifted between the time I wrote the early stories and now, but I did the best I could to keep them consistent. 
> 
> Thanks to my betas, Jen and saranoh, and also to anarialm, who totally helped with the early concepts. These folks are amazing. Ain't nobody like my posse. Or whatever.

**Wednesday, March 16, 1994**

It really kicks off when Bucky’s eleven, but of course, that’s not the story.

“You can do better,” his mom says, gesturing to the social studies test in the middle of the kitchen table. Next to her, his dad snorts. Like he thinks Mom’s lying, Bucky realizes, and his stomach ties itself into a knot. He slinks lower in his chair and crosses his arms.

Mom hardly notices. She hardly notices anything besides packing, lately, her whole life reduced to boxes and bags and bubble wrap. It’s a miracle she noticed the big red _forty-seven_ at the top of his test.

“I tried,” Bucky mutters when the kitchen grows too quiet. His dad snorts again, and something red hot climbs up out of his belly and licks at his face. “I did! I paid attention, I did _all_ my homework, but then the test happened and I couldn’t—”

“Simon never has this problem,” his dad interrupts. His voice, steel and ice, shuts everybody up; Bucky kicks at one of the rungs of his chair, but he keeps his mouth shut. “You notice that? We close in on a move, you start to fall apart, but Simon just works harder. Makes sure he’s ready for his new school, ready for whatever challenges lie ahead. You could learn a lot from him.” 

He flicks his cigarette ash into a soda can. The ember at the end glows when he sucks off another drag. Bucky stares at the place where his test meets the table.

“James,” his mother says softly, “we know moving’s hard. But the last thing you need to bring with you to your new school are bad grades. It’ll make everything so much harder.”

Bucky hugs himself tighter and keeps his mouth shut.

Augie’s reading in the bottom bunk when he walks into their bedroom a half-hour later, and he pretty much ignores him as he climbs up into his bunk and flops down hard. “Hey, don’t shake the whole thing!” his brother complains. Bucky rolls his eyes and buries his face in the pillow. He refuses to cry, not when his dad’ll hear about it and make everything worse. 

After like an hour of quiet, Simon sighs. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not with the good son,” Bucky sneers, and covers his head with the blankets.

 

**Saturday, August 10, 2013**

“So,” Bucky asks, “good drive?”

Augie says nothing.

They stand out on the landing outside the apartment, the sticky August breeze whipping through their hair as they finish up their morning coffee. Down in the courtyard, Steve pushes Dot on the swings. His white t-shirt’s already spotted with sweat; by the time Sam shows up for their morning run, he’ll be drenched.

Bucky’s in his own slouchy clothes, but Augie, like always, looks like he walked right out of a magazine. Expensive jeans, button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his hair messy and his stubble just-right. The playboy accountant, Bucky thinks, and grits his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes. Aside from the dark circles under his eyes, it’s hard to believe that he spent the last fifteen-plus hours in a car, driving up from Phoenix. 

He stares down at his half-full coffee mug—lots of sugar, lots of cream, like a kid’s drink—and runs his thumb along the rim. It’s an old mug from the county, complete with the county seal, but he stares at the stupid thing like it’s the Holy Grail.

Bucky’s about to draw in a breath when Augie says, “I texted you.”

Bucky wets his lips. “Yeah, I know, I just—”

“When’d we stop talking to each other?” The question’s so out of place, out of _character_ , that Bucky whips his head around to stare at the guy. His head’s bowed, but something unfamiliar—soft and lost and _strange_ —plays across his expression anyway. He shakes his head a little. “Fifteen-hour drive, lots of time to think, right? And I kept wondering when we stopped talking. Because I remember being little kids, and I remember the last couple years, but the middle’s hazy.”

Bucky shrugs one of his shoulders. “We grew up, I guess.”

“Did we?” He frowns, but Augie just waves a hand. “Sorry, that’s stupid.”

Bucky snorts, but he’s kind of smiling. “Never pegged you for the stupid brother.”

“Well, it wasn’t gonna be you,” Augie returns, and sips his coffee.

A half-hour later, Steve herds Dot up the stairs. She huffs and puffs the whole way up, complaining about the too-hot slide and insufficient swing time. “Can I at _least_ play with Uncle Simon now?” she asks once they reach the landing. When Steve raises an eyebrow, she wrinkles her face. “Please?” she adds impatiently.

“Ask your uncle,” Steve instructs.

“She doesn’t need to ask,” Augie assures them both. His smile’s relaxed and easy. Bucky never learned to smile like that. “I mean, I’m only here through tomorrow night. Might as well make it count, right?”

Dot lights up like a firework. Bucky says nothing.

Once Dot’s dragged her uncle inside, babbling about Disney princesses and dress-up clothes, Steve slings an arm around Bucky’s waist. He smells like wind and heat when Bucky leans in close. “Talk to him,” Steve encourages, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “He’s your brother. You need to keep the lines of communication open.”

“We’re a glorified rest stop between a job in Phoenix and one in Omaha,” Bucky reminds him.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, “and he’s still your brother.”

 

**Monday, August 12, 2013**

Dot hangs from Augie’s neck as they waltz around the living room, a mismatched version of Sleeping Beauty and her prince. Dot’s wearing her favorite princess gown (modeled after Ariel, not Aurora); Augie’s still wearing the same threadbare pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt from that morning.

Bucky stands in the doorway to the kitchen and rubs a hand over his mouth. 

“Why would he say anything to me?” Steve asks, voice echoing out from the depths of the fridge. The counter’s already littered with pieces of their dinner—chicken breast, broccoli, rice—but Steve’s always on the hunt for that one _special_ ingredient. Usually, Bucky finds it charming.

Today, it’s exhausting.

“Buck?” 

“I don’t know, because he likes you? Because he actually talks to you?” Steve’s staring at him when he walks into the kitchen, and he rolls his eyes. “You’re letting the cold out.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how fridges work.”

“I can text Tony if you really wanna go there,” Bucky threatens, and Steve grins at him. The TV falls silent for a second, but then the last chapter of the story starts up again—presumably, with more dancing. Bucky leans against the counter. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Start like you would with anybody else,” Steve suggests. Bucky starts to argue, but he shakes his head. “You act like the only conversation you can have is the come-to-Jesus you’ve avoided for the last fifteen years. You could just chat. Be his brother.”

“You’re clearly an only child,” Bucky returns.

“And you’re clearly deflecting.” Steve crowds into Bucky’s personal space and plants his palms on the counter, his arms framing Bucky’s body. Bucky’s not a small man, but it’s easy to feel small when Steve’s looming over him. “He said he needed to be in Omaha today,” Steve reminds him. “Instead, he’s here, dancing to Disney songs with our five-year-old. What’s that tell you?”

“That the job got pushed back.”

“Or that something’s wrong.” Bucky sighs and tips his head back, but Steve—stalwart, unshakable Steve, Steve who believed in Bucky back before he believed in himself—just shakes his head. “I know you like believing that Simon—”

“Augie.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth kicks up in a half-grin. “You like to believe that Augie only trusts you as far as he can throw you and only visits when he feels some kind of moral obligation. But there’s a pile of toys in Dot’s room that suggests otherwise. And,” he adds when Bucky opens his mouth, “he’s here. The day after he needed to leave for Omaha, he’s still here. Aren’t you curious about that?”

“Not when I know how comfortable our couch is, no,” Bucky returns. Steve rolls his eyes, exasperation running through him like a current, and Bucky presses a hand to his chest. “You say I believe the worst in Augie, and maybe you’re right. But you believe the best in him, like he’s some kinda saint and I’m just the last person to see it.” He shakes his head. “But he’s neither, you know? He’s just a guy who I happen to be related to.”

Steve drops his arms from the counter, his whole face creased in a frown. “He’s your only sibling. That should mean something.”

“It means I know where I can get a kidney,” Bucky replies, and walks out of the room.

 

**Tuesday, August 13, 2013**

Natasha stares him down for a full ten seconds before she shakes her head. “If I had any siblings,” she replies with a shrug, “it means they probably grew up in the same household. Survived—or didn’t survive, depending on their disposition—the same childhood. We’d send Christmas cards, maybe, but I don’t think we’d _talk_.”

Tony whirls around in his chair, forces a full-body shudder, and crosses himself. “The mere _thought_ of Howard Stark raising another child is— You know, I can’t think of a suitably apocalyptic metaphor. Because I want to say it’d be as bad as Bruce here being straight, but no, even _that_ pales in comparison to the thought of me with a sibling.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder to where Bruce is proof-reading a brief. Bruce glances up over the rims of his glasses. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”

“What to do about wayward, secretive siblings who show up at your apartment and crash on your couch,” Tony explains. He flaps a hand at Bruce’s immediate frown. “I know my writing’s kind of the greatest thing since my blowjobs and all, but it’d help out a lot if you kept up with the conversation.”

“You think too highly of your blowjobs,” Bruce replies, and returns to reading.

Predictably, the conversation devolves from there.

Later, in his own office, Bruce removes his glasses. “Jennifer and I grew up almost like siblings,” he explains, a tiny smile crawling across his face. “At least, when it came to bickering and accusing my aunt of favoritism. But Jen— She never really backs down from a fight or hides her light under a bushel, not anymore. If she needed me, she’d scream it from a rooftop before she’d skulk around and pretend everything’s fine.”

But it’s Clint, surrounded by pillows on his window ledge, who bursts out laughing. “You sure you wanna ask me for brother advice? And before you answer, remember: I knocked over a convenience store with the guy.”

Bucky sighs and drags a hand over his face. Of all his colleagues—his friends, he reminds himself, people he trusts with his daughter and his life—he’d expected Clint to offer sympathy instead of a giant, shit-eating grin. He leans his elbows on the back of one of his ugly Goodwill chairs. “You’re the expert on screwed-up brothers.”

“No, _Thor’s_ the expert. And I’m pretty sure his partner never needed to drag him off Loki when he wanted to beat the guy’s face in.” Bucky frowns at that, and Clint shrugs. “Killgrave case kinda threw our relationship for a loop.”

“Really? Because you’ve never mentioned that.”

“Your husband ever tell you you’re a sarcastic asshole? ‘Cause I’ll pick up the slack if he doesn’t.” Bucky snorts a laugh, and Clint grins. They watch each other for a couple seconds, the summer sun too bright as it streams through the window. “The thing about Barney,” Clint finally says, “is that he never learned how to talk to anybody. The way we grew up, you didn’t air your grievances, you know? You buttoned them up, hid them away, and they only ever came out in big explosions that leveled the relationship. And we both held onto that lesson, but differently.”

“Like with not telling Phil you missed him,” Bucky guesses.

Clint rolls his eyes. “You people ever gonna let me forget that?”

“Probably not.”

Bucky laughs when Clint flips him off, but not for very long. Clint leans his head back against the window, meets Bucky’s eyes without fear. Aside from that first time in court, he’s never looked at Bucky as anything less than a friend. The older Bucky gets, the more he appreciates that. “Look,” he says after another beat or two, “brothers are weird. You grow up in the same house with the same parents, but you learn different lessons. You become different people, whether you want to or not. And you can maybe bridge that gap, but sometimes, it means you’ve gotta wait.”

Bucky nods, dropping his eyes to Clint’s desk. The guy still decorates like he’s expecting to lose his job tomorrow, but there are purple post-its all over his computer monitor and a weird tower of highlighters. He smiles a little. “What if you’ve waited for most your life?” he finally asks.

Clint shrugs. “Then the only choice you’ve got is to push.”

 

**Thursday, August 15, 2013**

“Mom, I don’t know what you want me to—”

“He’s _with_ you, James!” his mother cuts in, and Bucky thumps his head back against their ugly green front door. “You can’t expect me to believe you have no idea what is going on with your brother!”

The night’s warm and prickly, the sweat already clinging to Bucky’s hairline, and there’s no chance in hell he can see any stars. On the other end of the line, his mom huffs out a breath. She’s probably pacing, the slippers she wears all year round scuffing the carpet while his dad chain smokes.

Bucky wipes the sweat away and sighs. “Mom, he’s not talking to me,” he says. He’s said it at least five times now, and every time, his mom huffs at him. “He’s _not_. He plays with Dot, cracks jokes with Steve, crashes out on the couch. Next day, it’s the same thing all over again.”

His mom immediately starts arguing again—assuming, like always, that he and Augie still crouch in a blanket fort and share secrets—and Bucky glances into the apartment through the window. Steve and Augie sit on the couch, talking over a baseball game. Augie’s in jeans and a t-shirt, his stubble a full beard now—it’s darker than his hair and wiry—but he’s smiling. Smiling and laughing, his feet on the coffee table as he gestures at the TV with a beer. Nothing weird, except maybe for that fact that perfect, workaholic Augie’s not—

“Wait,” he says into the phone, and his mom abruptly stops talking. His brain ticks over, trying to process what he just heard, but it slips through his fingers. “Repeat that.”

His mom sighs. “He quit his job,” she says, and something deep in Bucky’s stomach—something that used to be all anger and rage, screaming matches and slammed doors—turns over on itself. “His boss said that he sent an e-mail resignation when he finished the Phoenix job. He left his laptop and work phone at the work site, he won’t answer his personal phone— Bucky, if he wasn’t out there with you, I’d be calling the police.”

“Maybe he has another job lined up,” Bucky suggests. In the apartment, Augie laughs.

“Doing what? And without telling anyone? I know you like to believe the very best about your brother, but I just don’t think he’s happy.” His mom sighs. “Maybe I should call his boss. Maybe there’s a way for them to hold Simon’s job open, just until—”

“I’ll talk to him,” Bucky interrupts. “Hold off on anything crazy, okay? I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“It’s not crazy to want to preserve—”

“I’ll find out, Mom,” he repeats, stronger this time, and hangs up the phone.

He spends a good five minutes outside the apartment, dragging fingers through his sweat-damp hair and watching Steve and Augie soak in the full glory of the National League. His heart pounds where it’s lodged in his throat, and his mouth feels dry.

And when the game switches to commercial and Steve stands to head into the kitchen, Bucky walks back inside and demands, “You quit your job?”

Steve whirls around to stare at him, eyes wide and jaw slack, but Augie never movies. He freezes on the couch, his whole body as tense and still as a statue. A gum commercial segues into one featuring the insurance gecko, a car with loud subwoofers pulls into the complex parking lot, and Augie never budges.

Bucky throws up his hands.

“You know, I don’t mind that you’re the perfect son,” he spits, ignoring Steve’s immediate frown or the way Augie’s shoulders jump. “It bugged me when we were kids, sure, but now? It’s pretty much water under the bridge. And yeah, it still hurts that you skipped our wedding, that you skipped Dot’s _everything_ , but you’re allowed to have your own life. God knows I made peace with how it doesn’t include me and my family a _long_ time ago.” The fire he’s not fed for ages flares up in his stomach, hot enough that it licks his face, and he swallows around the sharp stinging in his eyes to point a finger at his brother’s back. “But the second you bring your baggage and drama here, and you expect me to bail you out? That’s the second I’m done. You hear me? Wash my hands of it, because if you think I’m going to listen to Mom worry, then you’ve got another—”

“You just know everything, don’t you?” Augie’s voice sounds different—strained and distant, like listening to him through a tin-can phone—as he shoves to his feet. Bucky expects him to glance over, but instead, he grabs his keys and wallet from the end table. “Jimmy Barnes, genius lawyer, has everybody all figured out.”

Bucky’s hands curl into fists. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you your _name_?” The last word snaps like a whip-crack as Augie whirls on his heel. His face is pale except for the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. For a second, he meets Bucky’s gaze; then, he looks away and shakes his head. “Sorry, I forgot. You disavowed the rest of us a long time ago. Decided we hated you, pushed us out, and you _still_ won.”

“Won _what_?” Bucky demands, throwing up his hands. “There’s no contest anymore, Augie! We’re not little kids, fighting for Mom and Dad’s attention!”

Augie snorts. “Yeah, since when?” he spits, and storms right past Bucky and out the door.

He slams it hard enough that Dot wakes up with a shout, and even two rooms away, Bucky can hear her burst into tears. He drags his fingers through his hair before he finally meets Steve’s eyes: sad, helpless eyes that match his slack jaw and his soft, lost face.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’ll calm her down,” he offers.

“Bucky—”

He raises a hand. “Not now, okay?” he asks, and he pretends not to feel Steve’s worry lingering after him.

 

**Friday, August 16, 2013**

Augie closes his eyes and leans his full weight against the side of Bucky’s car. “I wish I was like you.”

They’re out by the trailer park and Colier Woods, home to just about every felon Bucky’s ever defended or prosecuted. The only light in the area’s a neon Budweiser sign in the bar window, and the only other car in the lot’s propped up on cinder blocks. 

“He okay?” a fat man with a grease stained shirt asks.

Bucky waves him back into the bar. “He’s fine,” he promises, and Augie bends over to retch again.

They stand there for a long time, Augie with his hands on his knees and Bucky staring at the sky. The wind’s spitting sticky mist at them, a poor-man’s summer rain. “You don’t mean it,” he says after a while.

Augie spits in the dirt. “You sure I don’t?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

Augie wipes his mouth on his sleeve, swaying as he straightens up to his full height again. A gray dawn’s starting to stretch across the horizon, but it’s a long way off. After Augie’s stayed upright for long enough, no more vomit on his sneakers, Bucky nudges him in the arm. “Come on, Steve makes a mean—”

“I mean it.” Augie’s eyes are watery but clear when they find Bucky’s, and for a couple seconds, Bucky can’t remember the end of his sentence. They stare at each other, two brothers at what feels like the end of the world, and Augie scrubs a hand over his beard. “You act like I think you’re a fuck-up,” he says, every word beer-scented and clumsy, “but I never thought that about you. I just tried to keep my head down, keep it together even when you said and did _all_ the things you wanted.” He slumps back against the side of the car. “All the things I should’ve done.”

Bucky sighs. “Augie, you’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk,” Augie immediately retorts, “but I’m not _stupid_. I look at how you put it all together—with the husband and the baby and the plans—and then I look at my life, and it’s—” He gestures to himself with one floppy hand before dropping his arms to his sides. “I’m empty.”

For the first time in four days—or in all the years since Bucky moved away from home, depending on how you want to count it—Bucky’s heart twists in his chest. “You won’t be after one of Steve’s hangover cures,” he promises, and helps his brother into the car.

 

**Sunday, August 18, 2013**

“You don’t want the whole grisly story,” Augie accuses, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m not saying that Thursday night—”

“You mean Friday morning?”

“—was my proudest moment, but you don’t _really_ want to hear the whole ugly thing.”

“You know what they say about assuming stuff, right?” Bucky asks, and pushes Dot higher on the swings. 

Augie smiles at that, more like a ghost than a person, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s back in the expensive jeans and another of his button-ups, the collar a little more open than at church; he’s clean-shaven, and his hair’s held back with product. Sam’d joked about Augie having the looks of the family— _not sure I want you to be the brains, though_ , he’d commented to Bucky, and Bucky’d elbowed him—but right now, Augie just looks human again. More human than he’s looked in the last forty-eight hours, since he spent all Friday laid up with the hangover from hell and all Saturday skulking around the apartment after Steve, helping out with chores and avoiding a conversation.

Steve’d pressed close to Bucky’s back in bed Saturday night and repeated the same old line: _start like you would with anybody else_.

Augie stares into the sunny sky like he’s not sure how to start anything, anymore.

“It was like living with a shadow,” he says after a couple long minutes, after Bucky’s stopped Dot’s swing and sent her to climb all over the jungle gym with the other kids. “You were there, you know? You were all the sound and the fury in the world and then one afternoon, dad came home from the airport and all that was left were the posters in your room and a couple pairs of socks.” He snorts to himself, shaking his head. “One night, I took a couple of the posters and hung them in my room. Dad told me to take them down—garbage, he called them—so I rolled them up, stuck them under the bed. I think we lost them in the last move before he retired.”

Bucky wets his lips. “Augie—”

“You leave this shade, this _residue_ on stuff, and you don’t even know it,” Augie continues, almost like he’s not heard Bucky—or like he’s ignoring him, pushing all the words out before they stick in the back of his mouth again. “And at the start, it was all the sticky stuff left over from before you moved in with Aunt Ev, all the fights and the anger and resentment, so I just powered through it. More good grades, more accomplishments, awards to hang on the wall, whatever it took.” He glances over. “And then, you and Steve— It’s not your fault, but it made everything at home ten times harder.”

His eyes are huge and gentle—like they’ve always been, deep down under all of Augie’s industry and seriousness. Bucky nods before he says, “I know.”

“And then there’s me, thinking the whole time—” Augie trails off for a second, huffing out a breath as his shoulders soften. “I just kept doing what I’d always done. Nose to the grindstone, bloody knuckles, whatever it took. Maybe that’s still the definition of madness—doing the same thing over and over again, expecting something to change—but I _really_ thought if I kept doing everything like they’d always wanted both of us to, it’d all fall into place.”

He shoves a hand through his hair, and Bucky snorts. “Worked pretty well for you, if you ask me.”

Augie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, says the guy with the family and the job he loves.”

“To the guy with the great job and the piles of dough in his—”

“Like I was in it for the _money_ ,” Augie snaps. “Don’t you get it, Jim? I wanted to be like _you_.” Bucky blinks, his mouth kind of gaping open, and Augie snorts at him. “The second you learned to talk, you knew who you were. You named yourself, you figured yourself out, you got _out_ when the going got tough— You never let them win.” When he snorts again, he deflates, his body slumping and his eyes dropping to the grass. “I spent all the energy I had trying to be the good, perfect, fly-right son, and you end up that person just by _being_.”

“I ended up that person because I never did it for them.” Augie’s head jerks up when Bucky claps him on the shoulder. For a second, they just stand there—two brothers in the August sun—before Bucky shakes him lightly. Augie almost smiles. “If I don’t get that you wanted to be like me,” he presses, “here’s what you don’t get: I didn’t turn out okay for Mom and Dad. I never saw the point in that, really. I did all this for me and for Steve, the life the two of us wanted.” He squeezes Augie’s shoulder. “And you can still do the same thing.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” When Augie rolls his eyes again, Bucky slugs him in the upper arm. “You wanna know what I remember about us being kids, before everything went to shit? I remember you wanting to work in a skyscraper, do something with the arts. Not be the artist, because hell knows you can’t draw—” He grins when his brother shoves him. “—but be _part_ of that. A publisher or a record label, something bigger than— What do you even _do_?”

This time, Augie actually smiles. “I’m— Well. I _was_ an auditor with a public acc—”

“Yeah, see? Already bored, and you didn’t finish your job description.” Augie scoffs at him, and Bucky rolls his lips together to keep from laughing. “That’s not you, is it? Deep down, you’re not really an auditor.”

Augie’s smile slips away until he shrugs. “I don’t know who I am, other than Mom and Dad’s good son.”

“And you still are.” Augie pulls in a quick breath—a sign he’s about to argue, same as back in grade school—and Bucky holds up a hand. “You’re the good son some days. I’m the good son other days. And some days? Neither of us are.” He shrugs at his brother’s frown. “Mom and Dad wanted two little carbon copy children of the corn. Maybe every parent wants that. They’ve got to get used to the fact that we’re just two full-grown _people_.”

The corner of Augie’s mouth ticks up before he says, “But only one of us knows how to live his life.”

Bucky lifts a shoulder. “You quit your job and headed to the one place where that wouldn’t get you skewered,” he points out. “I think you know a lot more than you realize.”

 

**Sunday, March 16, 2014**

“No, Chicago’s pretty great,” Augie says, laughter in his voice. “Not as daunting as I expected, that’s for sure. Except for the crowds, the height of the buildings, the elevator at work I keep getting stuck in . . . ”

He trails off, and Bucky laughs with him. He’s standing out on Stark’s circle drive while the rest of the usual suspects dine their way through Astrid’s breezy first birthday. Somewhere, he hears Dot shrieking about a whiffle ball. 

“And how’s your landlady?” he needles once the screaming’s stopped.

Augie snorts. “I think you’re the only person afraid of Phil’s sister.”

“And I think you don’t value your life,” Bucky returns, and Augie laughs again.

He calls every Sunday now, a quick status update about his life: the job hunt, the apartment hunt, the terrifying elevator up to his office, the lady who sings on the L every morning. Some afternoons, they hang up after ten minutes; other times, they linger. Dot demands FaceTime about once a month, Steve texts with baseball statistics or recipe ideas, and Bucky e-mails out a lot of BuzzFeed links about stupid animals and stupider humans.

As kids, they’d laid on their bunk beds and talked about aliens, cowboys, and robots.

As adults, they gripe about the upcoming _Transformers_ movie, stitches over old wounds.

A chilly spring breeze forces its way through all of Bruce’s shrubs (the landscaping, Tony swears, will _never_ be his again), and Bucky shivers under his windbreaker. 

On the other end of the line, Augie stays quiet. Bucky frowns for a few seconds before asking, “And?”

“And what?” Augie replies. His voice sounds distant, almost choked.

“I lived with you for close to fifteen years. I know when you’re standing on something because you think I’m gonna shit on you about it.”

“Not _shit_ on me,” Augie stresses, but now, Bucky hears it: the thin note of vulnerability. After thirty-five years of standing on his nerves, they uncoil as he clears his throat and sucks in a deep breath. “Mom already pulled it out of me, but I’m— I kind of met someone.”

Bucky cackles. “Already?”

“Shut up, Jim.”

“Yeah, you can’t ‘Jim’ me out of this, you’re there for four months and you meet somebody?” Augie releases a pained noise, but Bucky knows that his grin—genuine and warm, after too many years of scowling—rings clear despite the tinny cell phone reception. “You know you need to tell me all about her, right? Prepare me for the inquisition. Give me a chance to bail you out when Mom starts asking about how many kids she wants and whether her folks brought her up right.”

On the other side of the line, Augie swallows audibly. “Well,” he says, “about that . . . ”

Later—after Astrid’s smashed her cake and Dot’s won the right to sleep over at the uncles’ (again)—Steve laughs as he drags Bucky down onto their mattress. It’s light and breathy, the laugh of a man who’s spent the last half hour distracted, and Bucky cards fingers through his hair as he kisses him that one extra time. “It’s not funny,” he accuses once he’s finished, and Steve beams up at him. “My folks will blame this on me. He spends a couple weeks here, he follows my life plan, he _tells_ them as much, and now he’s dating somebody who’s— I don’t know, whatever the word is.”

“Gender fluid,” Steve suggests, and Bucky rolls his eyes. Steve’s red-cheeked and warm as he drags Bucky closer. His fingers still trace Bucky’s skin like when they first tumbled into one another, like he’s stroking porcelain that’ll break if he’s too rough. Underneath, Steve’s always known the truth: that of the two of them, Bucky’s more likely to shatter.

He kisses Steve long and sweet, hand cupping his face and his neck. Steve presses his forehead against Bucky’s temple when they break apart. “He’s happy,” he says, lips almost against Bucky’s cheek. 

“The gender of his new squeeze has nothing to do with his happiness.”

“No, but you do.” Bucky’s stomach coils in on itself for a half-second, and he glances away. “You could’ve frozen him out without a second thought. Hell, a few times, even I thought you might. But you didn’t.” Bucky rolls his eyes a little, and Steve shifts to meet his gaze. “You did right by your brother, and you helped him figure out how to be happy. That’s important.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, well, never know when I might need that kidney,” he returns, but his heart feels pretty full when he smiles.

 

**Sunday, August 10, 1997**

It really kicked off when Bucky was eleven, but his life began at fifteen. 

“Was it just you and your parents?” Steve asks, licking ice cream off the side of his hand. Next to him, Bucky snorts. He’s sitting cross-legged on Grandma Rogers’s front porch, stabbing ants with a stick while Steve finishes his ice cream cone.

For a long time, neither of them says anything. A couple cars drive down the block, and a lady walks by with a baby stroller. It’s stupid-hot, the both of them melting in the shade.

Bucky pokes at his empty milkshake cup before he answers, “I have a brother. Augie.”

Steve stops to frown. There’s chocolate ice cream on his lower lip. Bucky pretends he’s not staring. “Older or younger?”

“What?”

“Is Augie older or younger?”

“Older. Almost four years.” Bucky shrugs as he stabs at another ant. “His actual name’s Simon, but I call him Augie because it pisses him off. He’s an accounting major. I think he’s got a 4.0 and shit.”

Steve smiles softly. “You have a 3.2.”

“Yeah, here. In high school, after summer school to make up credits.” Bucky drops the stick and flops down hard on the creaky porch. There’s the remnant of a dove’s nest above the porch light, and spider webs in the latticework trim. “He’s the good son,” he says after a really long time.

When he glances over, he finds out that Steve’s stretched out next to him, head cushioned by his arms. “You’re a good son, too,” he offers.

Bucky snorts and shakes his head. “I’m really not,” he replies, “but I’d rather be a good person than a good son.”


End file.
